The artillery driver's affection for his own particular pair of
horses is well known. Our battery, in a particularly unhealthy spot
in front of Zillebeke, in the Salient, had run out of ammunition, and
the terrible state of the ground thereabout in the autumn of 1917
necessitated the use of pack-horses to "deliver the goods," and even
then it was accomplished with difficulty.
A little Cockney driver with a pair named Polly and Bill had loaded
up and was struggling through the mire. Three times Bill had dragged
him on to his knees and up to his waist in the slush when a big Fritz
shell dropped uncomfortably near. Polly, with a mighty rear, threw the
Cockney on to his back and, descending, struck him with a hoof.
Fed up to the teeth and desperate, he struggled to his feet, covered
from head to feet in slime, and, clenching his fist, struck at the
trembling and frightened horse, unloading a brief but very vivid
description of its pedigree and probable future.
Then, cooling off, he began to pacify the mare, apologised, and
pardoned her vice by saying, "Never mind, ole gal--I didn't mean ter
bash yer! I fought the uvver one was hot stuff, but, strike me pink,
you don't seem _'ooman_!"--_G. Newell (ex-Sergt., R.F.A.), 22 Queen
Road, St. Albans._